In Cuba, when the power goes out, it’s not just the lights that go dark. The fans stop spinning, the connection drops, the noise fades. Excuses vanish too. And in that forced pause, imposed by the state on a rigid schedule, a different way of seeing begins.
This series was born during one of those scheduled blackouts, when the night stretches longer than usual and the candle becomes the protagonist. Not as a metaphor, but literally. With no electricity, we return to the essentials: fire, shadow, and silence. It was then, between playing cards scattered across a table and a handmade candle flickering in the dark that I saw something. A moment. A detail. And I shot.
I used my Canon 5D Mark III, switching between two lenses: the Canon 50mm f/1.8, perfect for capturing clean detail in very low light, and the Pentacon 29mm f/2.8, a vintage manual lens that adds an almost analog texture to the images. The only light source was a candle wrapped in rope, with occasional help from a softened phone flashlight to lift shadows without killing the mood.
Shooting during a blackout isn’t a limitation; it’s training. You learn to read light in its rawest form. You shoot with purpose. You compose with what’s essential, not what’s abundant. There’s no room for technical perfection, but there’s plenty of space for truth.
Every card, every shadow, every glimmer in the wax is an excuse to speak of something deeper: creativity as a form of resistance. Because while the island outside goes dark, we light a candle, open the lens, and find beauty in what’s left.
This isn’t just a visual experiment. It’s a testimony of how, in Cuba, even something as ordinary as a four hour blackout can reveal a moment worth capturing. And that moment, brief and fragile as it may be, is ours.
